I am three and a half tender years
You are not
I am in my cot
You are not
I am innocent
Little did I know
You were not
I am of many years
You are many more
I cannot breathe deeply
You’re seething
I cannot focus
Your mucus
I cannot touch my body
Your feeling
I cannot reach my stomach
Your sick pit
I cannot listen
You’re whispering
You shredded me to pieces
With your perverted thesis
I exist like diarrhoea
Running, running
Body and mind
Splattered behind the cot bars
I hate rhythm
There was no reason
I have pleaded to the skies
I have scurried on the ground
Jesus let me find the key
From these semen bars